


Picky

by prickledheart



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 04:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17842373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prickledheart/pseuds/prickledheart
Summary: It gets you killed.





	Picky

**Author's Note:**

> Largely ED based, read the tags and be safe.

Existing in a post-nuclear world with limited options for survival, most wouldn’t think to be picky. Being a snob towards certain foods or objects would be considerably more rude than in past days- and yet that’s what he is. 

Sugar bombs. Gum drops. Cram. Yum Yum, Blamco- you name it, he’ll probably avoid it like the plague. 

(In his defense, it could very well have it- food poisoning, and radiation poisoning at most, is probably the largest cause of death in the Mojave. Aside from him, of course- but there’s no love for him there. He has no capacity for that.)

He’s picky, and picky gets you killed; after everything that’s happened, maybe it’s time. 

For a courier who’s only intent was to slip by and exist mostly under the radar to get the job done, he’s brought a lot of destruction, hurt, and change to the mojave. What he thinks, _knows_ , he needs is a slow, painful death- if he’s an unstoppable force, he’ll have to end things himself; god forbid his pride allow anyone else to put him down.

It’s a form of retribution, so loving a phrase branded into him by Caesar, but it’s purely self inflicted. 

~~Michael half wished it wasn’t.~~

He couldn’t be blamed for his ribs poking out through his undershirt- if anyone asked, which they wouldn’t, it’d make sense to say that he was a busy man and wasn’t getting enough non-irradiated food anyway. No one would question it normally, if they even spoke to an ally of Caesar’s freely, but his companions were a different story- at least those that stuck around.

Lily doesn’t comment on his habit- she takes his scraps with delight, and is too consumed in her own madness to notice the shakes he gets at night. He, in turn, doesn’t mention when his stock of stealth boys goes down; it’s a symbiotic relationship- not quite enabling, but not helpful either. 

~~At least, not in a healthy way. They’re both getting, in a twisted sense, what they want.~~

Veronica understands him- she has her own ways of coping, griping about her ‘family’ and the circumstances that have come. If she stood by and let him succumb to his own actions, then so be it; he wasn’t about to point out her own damages- they were somewhat kindred spirits, after all. He’s not just going to drive her away like that.

~~Even at this stage, he can’t afford to- he has almost no one left.~~

Raul stops to comment every now and then- like a concerned grandfather, Michael would joke, if he wasn’t curled up in sheets when the ghoul told him, “You need to eat, boss.” Of course, he didn’t push, because while he trusted the courier enough (he had saved him from Utobitha, after all), he didn’t care to tempt the hand that put down Mr. House, conquered the NCR, and held even Caesar by leash- Raul, instead, just left whatever packaged garbage he found on the floor, and hoped he at least ate the mutfruit he left with it.

_Despite the taste of radiation that came with every bite, the courier always did. If his stomach was going to hurt either way, he might as well continue to live to please._

Rex and ED-E don’t have the capacity- but Rex also isn’t there anymore, and that hurts just as much as having him bring random object to eat did. He was, in a sense, machine, just like ED-E, but he felt far, far more than Michael could ever, going as far to hunt down wild animals in his free time and lug pieces of mole rat back to their base. Even if it was gross, he could at least try to stomach it to appease his dog- with a comment from his favorite companion about how it was ‘disgusting’ but that he was ‘glad you’re eating.’

Speaking of said companion-

Arcade would care. 

Michael made sure he couldn’t intervene anymore by giving in to the Legion’s demands- the blonde doctor made it known he wouldn’t work with him if he tried to help the cause, pushed to tell him not to be loyal-

But he left. And he couldn’t force Michael to eat food if he wasn’t around. (And god knows if anyone could force him to be normal, be safe, it would be Arcade Gannon of all. That man had the archangel wrapped around his finger- until he wouldn’t let it be shoved down his throat for anything but his own demands.)

Rex had gone with him, as did Boone once the word he was working with the Legion got around, and after the untimely death of Cass, it was probably in good sense for all three to get out of town. Not that he would ever turn against them- but a matter of image, of his own twisted, deep set inferiority won’t let him rest.

Michael was a monster- he knew that much. He didn’t take pride in the destruction, but it blew into town with him wherever he went, as if karma was at fault. ~~If only it were that simple.~~

He figure’s he’s almost worse than Caesar- then he thinks, no, he’s definitely worse than him, and he has the body counts to prove it. He also has his own proof that he can’t even begin to make sense of. In any case, it’s obvious that he’s helpless- he’s pushed himself further than the all-but-dead leader had, and yet he still doesn’t stop.

For someone with the skill and wit to change the world and save the man ready to destroy it with ease, he sure lacks the prowess to do anything in his best interest.

But maybe he’s fine with that, he thinks, as he takes a drawl of a far too old, far too uneffective cigarette.

~~As if.~~


End file.
